It's a crisp Friday, the 23rd of October, late in the afternoon, early in the century. Clear skies portend a weekend of outdoor hoops. Also, the forecast looks promising for building a tire-swing. And yes, they are also auspicious conditions for mowing the lawn, and for vacuuming, and for changing the cat box. Or cats' boxes, rather. We've got two of these dunderheads. And wow can they move some bowel.
I want to get some hoops in today, and I will. As easily imagined as done: that's how I roll. First, though, I've got to go pick up little Jean. She's at day care. She's one. She'll be two in December. She's at day care right this moment, right now, two miles from here, clapping her little hands or sitting on her teacher's lap or just standing at some shelves idly banging a rubber hammer. Although she speaks in bursts of just two or three words, and has never said so directly, she does seem to enjoy herself there. She's chirps at drop-off, and beams at pick-up. She recites the names of her classmates at the dinner table. In particular, she mentions a boy named Cole. "Cole dinner?" and "Cole bath?" and some other things about him I can't understand. This vexes me. I eye her warily as she jams bread in her mouth, this young man's name on her crumby lips. I am consumed with an urge to raise her in a fundamentalist manner, move to a traditional land where we can present her to society at age 28. Only then might this "Cole" enter our house of thatch to ask my permission to stroll the village before sundown. But not now. Not while I'm eating my frito pie.
Time to go get her. I called this first post street clothes, as that is what I wear currently. As in argyle sweater and some dark pants that my wife bought for me. In short time, I'll be in my silver shorts and gray top. I'll be shooting long-range at the court down the street. Unless little J wants to go for a ride on the bike. In that case, we'll do that. So, listen for her minnie-mouse "wride?" and you'll know my destiny. Either draining threes or wearing a helmet.